Run Him Like a Blade
by Katrina Kay
Summary: Hitman!John/evil!John AU: After Sherlock's death, John can't feel anything and is sick of the pity. When a case goes wrong and he kills a suspect, the rush restores him and killing becomes appealing. Will Sherlock return too late to reverse the damage?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _BBC Sherlock belongs to Moftiss and the BBC, not me.

_Author's Notes: _I got this idea from a post (/post/17341163880/) by the fabulous Brie (deanspartyhat on Tumblr) who graciously gave me permission to upload my fic. I was encourage to write this by my new fandom soulmate, Brittany (badnews-for-brainwork on Tumblr.)

_Warnings: _It has an M rating for a reason. People will die, there will probably be smut/sex at some point, and it's certainly going to contain more than the daily recommended dose of angst.

* * *

_Run Him Like a Blade_

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had told him to wear a scarf or at least a thicker jacket, but John Watson barely feels the bone-numbing chill of the late fall air as he stands by the grave. It's too beautiful a day for such a gloomy errand, but John's attention is focused on more important things than the beautiful blue sky or crisp, vibrantly colourful leaves. Faded flowers are propped against the black marble headstone, brought by Mrs. Hudson a few weeks ago. It's been two months since he had barely controlled himself enough to walk away from Sherlock Holmes' final resting place without crying (too unmanly, crying in public, even at a loss that left him feeling as though his insides had been torn out and never replaced.)

Back then, he had wiped his eyes and walked away. Eight weeks later, it's getting more and more difficult to walk away from his weekly visits with any conviction that his therapist is right about grief. It hasn't lessened, only shifted, becoming less raw but more unbearably heavy. A weight has settled in his chest and refused to budge. He had come back from Afghanistan with little hope that life would improve beyond dull olive walls and beige jumpers. Suddenly, there was Sherlock, petty and rude and a pain in the arse but so much better than post traumatic stress disorder and a psychosomatic limp that garnered him pitying looks wherever he went.

For a year, he had had the thrill of sprinting down dark alleyways with Sherlock in pursuit of some vital clue or miserably fast suspect, limp forgotten as he tried to keep up. He had had late night takeaway and early morning tea (all Sherlock would take in the morning, unless John forced him to eat a bit of toast or the occasional egg.) There had been crime scenes and crap telly and bickering and accusations and finally, those long seconds when John had wished he had used his knowledge as the only person Sherlock Holmes had called a friend in over ten years to realise that the look in Sherlock's eyes had been a painful but necessary bluff of coldness and disdain. He had told John to go and John had gone, furious beyond belief at Sherlock's lack of compassion for Mrs. Hudson. Now the olive and beige, the colour of his army uniform and his lonely bedsit, has come back, and this time there is no Sherlock to dislodge the endless, monotonous boredom.

His fist clenches slightly at his side. No matter how many times he recalls the day, what he remembers most is the contrast between the looks on Sherlock's face when John had screamed at him, calling him a machine and heartless, and when he had reached his hand towards John from the roof of St. Bart's only hours later. He had told his therapist all of this, only to see that same look of pity in her eyes as she told him that Sherlock's death was not his fault. He had pulled away from the touch of her hand on his wrist as he replied dully that indeed it was. She had removed her hand and asked about Mrs. Hudson instead.

The mobile in his pocket beeps softly and a tiny tendril of anger blooms in his stomach at the interruption.

_Breakthrough in the Alexander case. Hoping you could stop_

_by the lab to see Molly when you're free – Greg_

The few people who are important in his life knew exactly where John is today and every Sunday morning for the foreseeable future, and Lestrade damn well knows, yet he had still sent the text. John shoves his phone back into his pocket and stalks away, furious with Lestrade and furious with Sherlock and furious most of all with himself when he isn't too busy being completely numb.

* * *

Bart's is quiet, as usual for a Sunday morning. He manages to make it to Molly's basement lab without running into anyone familiar (god forbid he see Sarah and have to put up with the look and have to lie to her with false reassurances and an even more false smile for the umpteenth time.) Down in the basement, it's quiet and dark and peaceful. Is this what death is like, cool and serene and comforting? No more pity and loss, only relief at finally being _done_, no standards to meet, only relief from the exhaustion of pretending to be interested in the endless repetition of life.

Molly is bent over a microscope when he leaves the darkness of the hallway behind and steps into the warmer glow of the lab's yellow lights. A brief expression of shock appears on her face, barely noticeable before it's replaced with a small smile.

"There wasn't much to go by, but I was able to extract a DNA sample from the blood on the hairbrush. Looks like it was her husband after all. Greg's working on figuring out where he's hidden away since he hasn't been back to his apartment yet."

The silence lengthens, and John realises it's his turn to speak. "Anything else?"

She shakes her head, a wrinkle of worry appearing on her forehead. "No, but…I just wanted to see how you're doing. You haven't been down here since the last case two weeks ago, and—"

John doesn't let her finish. "I'm fine, really. Everything's fine." Perhaps he should have attempted to put a little more effort into the statement because Molly doesn't look convinced.

"John, I know it's been difficult, but you know if you need anything, you can come to me. Because you don't sound fine and you don't look fine."

He pastes a close-lipped smile onto his face. Clearly a bad idea, since now Molly's eyes have teared up and she looks like she is about to hug him and he really, truly can't pretend to be feeling something he isn't when all he feels is a void occasionally cut through with an acid burn of frustration that's probably the start of an ulcer. Christ, he is almost forty and feels so tired at pretending.

"I've got to go. I'll, er, call you." He retreats quickly, already out the door before a few tears spill down Molly's cheeks, too far away to hear her whisper, "No, you won't," before she wipes the drops off her cheek and goes back to work with shaking hands.

* * *

He runs into Mrs. Hudson in the hallway at Baker Street. Nowhere is the look found more often than on her face; in fact, it seems her default expression for him nowadays. He puts up with the look and the copious amounts of food she thinks it necessary to give him daily, even though he insists that he can and does still shop for himself and is still capable of cooking. Today it's some sort of quiche that she thrusts into his hands after he takes off his jacket.

"Oh dear, look at the state of you. Have you slept at all? I know you said no before, but some of my herbal soothers really might help you get some rest."

"I'm a doctor, Mrs. Hudson, I can get sleeping pills if I need them. Thanks for the quiche."

As he makes his way upstairs, he can tell without seeing that she is shaking her head sadly. "It's so sad to see you like this, dear. It's been two months, don't you think you should—"

Perhaps he slams the door as he retreats to the flat. Or maybe just closes it a bit harder than necessary.

No more piles of books or papers to navigate. No knife in the mantel holding a dusty stack of letters. No mouldering remains rotting away in the fridge. Most of Sherlock's belongings had been packed away by John and Greg in the days right after the funeral, sorted into banker's boxes labelled carefully and placed in neat stacks in Sherlock's bedroom. The books that had been shelved next to the fireplace remain in their place and a few racks of test tubes still live on the kitchen shelves, but the flat is cleaner and far too empty now. Greg had offered to patch the bullet holes in the wall and try to find the paper to repair the damage, but John had just shaken his head numbly and the project had been forgotten.

The boiling water in the electric kettle is suddenly fascinating. John carries his tea over to the living room and sits in his chair. His shoes are kicked off to land by the fireplace. He drinks cup after cup of tea as the shadows on the wall grow longer and the sounds of traffic in the street below grow louder. Weekend visits to the countryside would be over soon as Londoners returned home to prepare for the start of another work week. He hadn't been to the clinic in three weeks, and Sarah had stopped calling.

His growling stomach reminds him that food is probably necessary by this point. He heats up a slice of the quiche and returns to the chair, flicking on the telly. Some sort of history programme about the pyramids is on, and he watches mindlessly, the noise a welcome break from the quiet. It's only five o'clock; five more hours before he can shower and sleep and wake up to more pity and no chases or shootouts or brilliant blue-gray-green eyes studying him as he tries to catch up with Sherlock, who had no doubt deduced the solution dozens of minutes ago but still waits for John to figure it out.

He must have dozed off sometime after finishing the quiche, because he dreams. He is limping, cane in hand, through the park. When he passes the duck pond, Harry is there, feeding the birds seashells because the pond is no longer a duck pond but an ocean. They sit on a bench as the surf moves to cover their feet and the ducks paddle around them, quacking loudly until Harry feeds them more shells.

She frowns at him then, studying his face. "There's something wrong with you. You're not right anymore." He doesn't respond, and she goes on, still feeding the ducks without her piercing eyes ever leaving his face. "You've got bags under your eyes and your limp is back. Don't you think you've carried on enough already?" He gapes at that, unable to speak. The tide had surged and now the water covers their laps, but Harry hasn't noticed. "He's dead and he's not coming back and frankly, John, this is starting to get pathetic."

The water reaches his chest, and there are more ducks coming from among the half-submerged trees, and he still can't speak. "Why can't you just get over it? It's been two months and he's not coming back and everyone's getting sick of tiptoeing around your grief," Harry hisses. "What are you waiting for? Pull yourself _together_." He finally manages to whisper, "I can't," before the water reaches his lips and he chokes and the ocean swallows him.

John wakes with a start to find that the sky is dark, the lamp in the corner has been switched on, and Mycroft Holmes is perched in Sherlock's chair, watching him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello, John." Mycroft is perched stiffly in Sherlock's chair with his umbrella across his knees and a small upturning of his lips that would have been a smile on someone else's face. "Bad dream?"

John scrubs at his face and gazes with bleary eyes at Mycroft, who looks unchanged since the last time he had paid a visit to 221B Baker Street weeks ago. Judging by the bespoke pinstriped suit and immaculate shoes, one would never be able to tell that the man was sitting in the leather armchair of his dead brother. If he could muster up any shred of caring, he would be furious at Mycroft. Instead, John sighs and makes his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on yet again.

"Do you really need any more caffeine today?" Of course Mycroft knows exactly how John had spent his day and how much tea he has already had. Probably watched footage of John standing by Sherlock's grave - because no matter how often John asks, he is sure Mycroft's beady-eyed cameras still survey the cemetery - and tried to understand why this man who had known Sherlock for little over a year cared more than his brother did.

He's tempted to dump the tea on Mycroft's lap but hands the cup to him instead. Shame to ruin a good suit. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

The put-out frown fits Mycroft's face much better than that creepy half-smile. "I came to check up on you. The detective inspector is…concerned about your welfare. As am I. It's been two months since my brother's death and—"

The words echo his dream too much for comfort. "—and I should just get over it already. I should move on and pretend I didn't watch him kill himself right in front of me." An icy numbness grips his middle, and Mycroft watches him, frown deepening, as John grips his chair's arms a little too tightly for his neutral tone.

"He wouldn't want you to be like this."

John lets out a humourless chuckle at the attempt at sentiment. "How the hell would you know? We both know he couldn't stand being around you. You _betrayed_ him, Mycroft. If it's anyone's fault that I'm 'like this,' it's quite possibly yours."

Mycroft's eyebrows fly up at that. "I see." He sets aside his tea and stands, umbrella in hand, to leave. John walks him to the door, his hand on the doorknob when Mycroft pauses and catches John's eyes with his own.

"Lestrade has you working on the Alexander case. He's going to be calling you shortly to discuss apprehending the suspect, Ned Alexander. I feel I should warn you to be careful. Alexander is linked with one of London's more dangerous crime syndicates, and he will not be an easy man to capture."

John nods curtly and opens the door. Mycroft reaches the end of the landing before turning to address him. "I regret my actions, John. I did care about my brother," he admits quietly.

"Don't come here again." He shuts the door loudly for the second time that day.

When he finally falls asleep that night, John dreams of the war. Guns and bloodshed and violence rouse fear and adrenaline that wake him gasping in the darkness as his hands scrabble at the sheets.

* * *

The Tube is crowded with lunchtime commuters, several of whom press closer to John than is entirely comfortable. He hates the noise and the bustle and had gotten used to travel by taxi, but money has gotten even tighter since Sherlock's death. With no more clients and no more clinic work, he knows sooner or later that he'll go to scan a box of tea or litre of milk at Tesco and an error message warning of insufficient funds will flash across the screen of the chip and pin machine. So he puts up with the pointy elbow of the skinny blond teenager behind him and the none-too-pleasant odour of the probably homeless man to his left and endures the ride in silence.

He manages to dodge the heavy traffic on Broadway after escaping the Saint James's station and arrives at New Scotland Yard without incident. Lestrade is at his desk, feet propped up and pastry in hand as he skims one of a stack of case files. When John knocks quietly at the open door, he swallows the large bite of jelly doughnut and sets down the file.

"Hey. Molly said you stopped by and she told you about the hairbrush. We're still waiting to hear back, should be soon though."

John nods. The silence stretches again, lessened slightly by the distraction of an assistant delivering another thick folder to Lestrade, who groans and rubs at his eyes. "When this day is over, I am going to be in serious need of a drink. I know you've been…er, busy, but would you want to go out for a pint?"

"Sure." Perhaps he could have put more enthusiasm into his response. Lestrade studies him, a frown too much like Mycroft's appearing on his face.

"All right, John? I know the last few cases weren't exactly action-packed, but you know the Yard really doesn't see that many exciting cases…"

The silence returns as Lestrade trails off apologetically.

"It's fine. I'm fine. A drink would be nice."

Footsteps behind him and the movement of Lestrade's eyes away from John's alert him to someone else's presence. Anderson, armed with yet another folder of paperwork and the sneer he seemed to reserve just for John these days.

"Detective Inspector, there seems to be a civilian taking up space in your office. Still letting him pretend to work here?"

Lestrade waves him closer, rolling his eyes with a sigh at Anderson's pettishness. "Not that it's any of your business, since I am in charge of this division last I checked. Is that the paperwork from the Prichard murder?"

"Lab results came in this morning, so I was finally able to finish the report."

As he walks forward to hand the file to Lestrade, he bumps John's bad shoulder and turns to smirk an apology. The tendril of anger rekindles in John's stomach, surprisingly and suddenly potent. Two months of putting up with Anderson's mocking condescension - made worse when fuelled by the presence of Sally Donovan - is enough to briefly cut through the fog that blankets John, and his hand twitches as he resisted the urge to shove Anderson through the glass wall of Lestrade's office. Although the glass is probably bulletproof which meant that, at best, Anderson would end up with a concussion. John thinks he could probably live with that.

But the time for retaliation passes as Lestrade flips through the pages of the report and queries the forensic tech about his writeup. It's as if he isn't even in the room, but it had usually been that way when Sherlock dragged him to the Yard to annoy Greg. Then, Anderson and Donovan were too busy harassing the consulting detective and Lestrade was too busy trying to keep up with Sherlock's rapid deductions. But Sherlock had always turned to ask John for confirmation or to explain some minor point or simply to give John that _look_, the one that said we're the only ones who really know what's going on here. Months later, no one knows how to act around John because he isn't getting better, and he feels like a nuisance.

Donovan chooses that moment to stick her head into Lestrade's office, looking flushed and winded. "Just heard back about Alexander. He's been spotted hiding out in Tottenham off Creighton Road."

Lestrade looks back to John again as he abandons the paperwork to jump up and grab his coat. "Do you have your gun with you?"

"Yes." John rarely leaves the flat without the Sig Sauer on him. It's a reminder of the good old days, back when he actually had to use it. The L106A1 would be useful if any of Moriarty's men decided to pay a visit, but two months after their leader had bled out on the roof of Bart's, John doubts any of them are very interested in coming after him. Sherlock and Moriarty are both gone, and his occasional involvement in Yard cases has been restricted to research and medical consultation. At least it's something to do, since he doesn't really feel like going to the clinic and attempting to bolster any patients' spirits.

"You can't seriously be thinking of letting _him _tag along on an arrest! He's still just a civilian, for god's sake. And that gun's illegal!" Anderson splutters. Donovan nods in agreement, adding, "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, sir."

She looks over to John almost apologetically. Despite her glee at Sherlock's fate, she's been mostly civil and almost respectful of John's loss, seeming to understand what Sherlock meant to John even if she clearly thought the bond rather one-sided. She had always been just a bit more tolerable than Anderson, though heaven knows what she saw in the man. "It's just that you don't, well, seem very up for it."

"Well, he's a better shot than either of you are. Let's go, John." He strides out of the office with John, Donovan quietly grumbling but stepping quickly to keep up.

* * *

Of course, the route they take would take them past a cemetery. John ignores it and the looks from Donovan and Lestrade, instead staring forward so intensely he thinks he might strain something. They park the unmarked car just past the intersection of White Hart Lane and Creighton. When he opens his door, he immediately turns up his coat collar; by now, what had started as yet another sunny day has turned cold and cloudy, a portent of a harsh winter to come.

"All right, backup's on call if we need it, but I'd rather keep this quiet since God knows we're up here every other week. Sergeant Donovan, I want you to go with John to check out the shacks behind that row of houses - he's probably hiding out back there since it's closed in by the houses and the cemetery. I'll check this side."

They nod and start off, walking quickly. The streets are quiet, as usual for a Monday afternoon, but it's not somewhere anyone would choose to linger. In fact, John thinks, it was probably more typical to see someone running down the cracked sidewalk. Trash blows alongside them as they make their way to a service entrance for the cemetery and draw their guns.

Mycroft certainly had not been overestimating the danger of apprehending Alexander if the man decided to fight. John had read the autopsy report, seen photos of the damage to his wife's body when she had decided to reveal information to one of her husband's competitors. But Lestrade had also been right: an obvious police presence in this stretch of Tottenham would drive Alexander underground. If they were lucky, they would surprise him. If not, backup was only minutes away.

He motions to Donovan to take the first row of shacks and she nods, tapping her cell phone where it rests in her pocket to remind him to call if he needs. John nods in return and makes his way quietly but swiftly back to the second row of cobbled-together sheds. It had been too long since the last time he had done this, run down a suspect in some back alley, gun drawn and heart pounding. He can feel the blood moving through his veins and his lungs fill with the burn of cold air, fighting back some of the numbness.

This was what had appealed to him about war: the adrenaline and the alertness and the hint of fear that whatever was coming he might not make it through…but if he did, his opponent certainly wouldn't. Of course, here the rules are different, but Sherlock had shown him the battlefield underneath the comparatively civilised veneer of London, and John still craves what he could only call the passion of the battlefield. Now even his anguish has begun to fade around the edges, becoming staler as time passes and any return to normalcy (was there such a thing in a world that had once contained Sherlock Holmes?) continues to evade him.

John waits briefly outside of each structure, listening for the slight rustles and murmurs that would indicate the shack is occupied. The only noises that meet him as he works his way from building to building, however, are the wind and the distant rush of traffic.

He has almost reached the end of the row when a crash, too quiet to be heard from the main road, echoes from the row Sally is searching.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

Thanks to everyone for all of the story alerts and favorites! I'm so excited to be writing fanfiction again instead of just lurking and reading.

I forgot to mention in the first chapter where I got the name for this fic. "Run him like a blade/To and through the heart" is part of the lyrics from the song The Hollow by A Perfect Circle.

I had to do a bit of research for this chapter. Sherlockology (sherlockology[dot]com) was incredibly useful for maps of Sherlock locations throughout London and information about John's gun. I also had some assistance from a former English professor who was not fazed in the slightest when I asked him, "Hey, where would be a good sketchy place in London for a member of organized crime to hide out from the police?" Thanks also to the lovely Brittany (OodIsGood) for feedback and beta-ing.

I'm not sure what the update schedule is going to be for this yet. Right now I have lots of ideas and free time, but as the chapters are long-ish I'm pretty sure I won't be doing more than one update a week. It just depends on when I feel creative and what my work schedule is like, but I'm going to try and update frequently.

As always, reviews are very much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

John runs instantly toward the noise. It's possible Donovan has simply knocked something over, but his soldier instincts are screaming otherwise at him. The path in front of the sheds is abandoned. Not a good sign, since Donovan would have known to return outside to reassure him that the noise had been accidental. John creeps up to the first shed and pauses to listen for the slightest indication that the building is occupied. Hearing nothing, he moves to the next one, muscles tensed in anticipation.

As he creeps up to the small window to look through a gap in the grimy curtains, he catches a flash of movement from within. It's impossible to tell if the person inside is Donovan or Alexander, but the tinkling crash of glass tells John he can't risk waiting outside. He reaches for his mobile and texts _Backup _one-handed to Lestrade, shoving it back into his pocket before he raises a leg to kick in the door with a splintering crack he hopes was the door and not his leg.

Sally has been thrown against the far wall, gun lost somewhere in the small, junk-filled space, by a massive dark-haired man John recognises as Alexander from his file. He lunges toward John, who raises his gun without hesitation but fires through the ceiling when Alexander's giant paw of a hand swats the gun upwards. He dodges the next fist and prepares to fire again, but Alexander reaches out to wrap a hand around John's and _squeezes_. John feels the popping of his joints when Alexander's hand begins to crush his and lets out a yell of pain as he drops the gun.

Behind them, Donovan scrambles to find her weapon as Alexander swings his other fist to uppercut John. He lands against the wall, wondering in a daze how many teeth he has left. Alexander manages to kick John's gun under a pile of debris and closes in on Donovan, who looks up in terror and scrambles to her feet unarmed. Now that the element of surprise is lost, Alexander seems to have no compunctions about attacking police officers and lifts her bodily as she struggles, throwing her to land next to John with a crack that sounds as if something (please be a table or a crate or anything but a body part, John thinks) has broken.

John struggles to make his way through the clutter over to Donovan while Alexander flees the shack. He can't let the man get away, not after all this, but he has to make sure Sally is still alive. A cursory exam proves that she is indeed still alive and breathing, and nothing seems permanently damaged. But there's no point in lingering to wait for her to return to consciousness, and he is already at a disadvantage by being unarmed. John takes a deep breath to steady himself before sprinting after Alexander.

He's almost to the end of the drive, headed toward a chain-link gate. John pushes himself to go faster, lungs already burning after too many days of inactivity and too many sleepless nights. Everything around him is forgotten as he moves; nothing is as important in that moment as catching up to the man who has reached the gate and is now slipping through the opening towards freedom. Nothing else exists besides John's feet smashing into the gravel and the burn in his lungs and the adrenaline singing through his veins…and, most importantly, the target.

The gate swings open with a crash as he bursts through into the cemetery they had passed in the car. It's massive, row upon row of tombstones stretching into the distance. The wind whips past him as he forces his screaming muscles to keep moving, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the ache in his hand. Alexander is slower now, losing speed as exhaustion set in.

John is almost close enough to touch him, closer, so close…He reaches for Alexander, tackling the man to the gravel path. But Alexander still resists, shoving John away and standing to run. John catches his ankles and pulls him back down, wishing he had had time to grab his gun. He doesn't quite manage to bite back a shout of pain as Alexander's flailing feet connect with his injured hand, but he tightens the grip of his other hand, refusing to let go.

They had struggled for a minute or two when, suddenly, Alexander turns and caatches hold of John by the throat. He climbs to his feet and swings John to smash into the nearest tombstone with a sickening crack of bone on granite, hands tightening even as blood begins instantly to pour from John's head and his vision rapidly fades. John's fingers scrabble wildly against Alexander's in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure, but he has spent all of his energy in the chase and has nowhere near the strength to push the massive hands away.

So this would be it. John Hamish Watson, former army captain and former doctor and former companion and friend to the great Sherlock Holmes, was going to gasp his last in a neglected cemetery in one of the worst parts of London. He realises through the fog that every role he had ever played had turned 'former' long before this moment; it had been two years since the army now — and two months since Sherlock that seemed much, much longer. It had been more than Sherlock that John had lost that day. He had been broken and never quite properly patched back together, with no purpose to pursue, back to terror-filled nights and long, empty days. Too tired and too old to save himself.

At least now, John thinls, he won't have to put up with the pity. It's the condescension about it that galls him the most. He can picture it: Anderson's bloody smug face turning to Donovan at his funeral with an I-told-you-so plastered across his features. Lestrade and Mycroft shaking their heads sadly as they muttered about what a loss to the world his death was before they turned away and went back to business, as if he didn't even _matter_. They expect him to die, to curl up and submit to the darkness because that's what his grief is all about, slowly becoming a weaker version of himself until he is the creature that Mrs. Hudson tuts over with a sadness that is so _fucking_ predictable and trite.

A wave of rage roars to life within him, akin to the tendrils of anger that he had felt but so much stronger - unlike anything he's felt in years. This was the fury of watching his men die in the choking heat of the desert as he sat and watched; this was the tide of wrath that he had been unable to feel at Moriarty for killing his best friend - the person he cared for more than anyone in the world - because of raw, numbing shock; this was the anger he had suppressed at Sherlock for leaping off St. Bart's even knowing that when he died, John's heart would die as well…but John had been able to do _nothing_. He is sick of sitting back and letting the world push him from heartache to heartache and waiting for the loss that would finally destroy him, because it has arrived and no one expects him to survive.

This is white-hot, potent rage the likes of which John has felt only a handful of times in his life, and it surges through his veins so strongly he can almost hear it crackle. It's like being electrocuted: his body writhes as he fights for consciousness with renewed vigour. But it is not only the need to survive that fuels his struggle any longer. Now hatred courses alongside adrenaline: hatred for the man who holds his throat but also for those who think him weak and broken and inferior.

He seizes the nearest chunk of tombstone that lays scattered on the ground beside him and, with a furious swing, bashes it into Alexander's face. The man releases him instantly, staggering back, but John lunges forward to slam the stone into Alexander's face again. Blood pours from the man's nose, but John's arm moves with rapidly vicious intent. Again and again, he pummels Alexander's face and head with the stone so many times that by the time the adrenaline has faded enough for his consciousness to fade from his injuries, John is spattered with pieces of gore and streaks of blood from Alexander's caved-in skull.

By the time Lestrade reaches them, John has blacked out, limbs askew, next to Alexander's remains in a puddle of blood that has already begun to cool.

* * *

After many years at the Yard, Lestrade had known to call an ambulance as a precaution as soon as he had received John's text. Alexander's body had been quickly zipped out of sight within a black bag while paramedics strapped John to a gurney and carefully loaded him into the vehicle. The DI had clamoured into the back of the ambulance to ride with John, whose breathing is shallow as he remains unconscious. While the crew begins an IV drip and wipes down John's blood-soiled skin, Lestrade wipes his face with his hand, still in shock at the tableau that had met his eyes as he had arrived in the cemetery. He won't know what had happened until he is able to talk to John, but the image of what was left of Alexander's face isn't going to leave Lestrade's mind anytime soon.

A minute or two later, John murmurs something and his eyes flicker under their lids, startling Lestrade out of his reverie. He repeats John's name loudly until the man's eyes roll open and come to rest on him, wide and frenzied.

"John, do you know who I am?"

Lestrade watches as John lifts his head slightly and struggles to focus on his face. "Greg. Where'm I?"

"You're in an ambulance, on the way to hospital. Focus, John. I need you to tell me what happened with Alexander."

"I killed him." John is silent after his declaration for a handful of moments before a quiet giggle of mirth escapes him that sends chills up Lestrade's spine. He opens his mouth to speak, but John falls back with a small, delirious smile on his lips as unconsciousness claims him again, leaving Greg to wonder what the fuck he just witnessed.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

Told you it was going to be gory. I mean, it's a story about a guy who kills people. One down; many, many to go. Buckle up, kiddies.

For anyone wondering, Sherlock will be showing up soon - in a few chapters, that is. As will Seb ;)

If anyone wants to Britpick or notices any typos/errors, please PM me!

Thanks for all the hits/visits and favorites. It means a lot to me :) Special thanks to Brittany (OodIsGood) for beta-ing and tea parties and being generally the best person ever.


	4. Chapter 4

A chime from his mobile startles John into consciousness. He is in bed under cool, starched sheets, listening to the quiet beeping of a heart monitor. Hospital, then. His head and throat throb in time with the sound of the machine. Jesus, his throat feels crushed; breathing feels like swallowing shards of glass garnished with razor blades. He reaches up to gingerly explore what feels like a square of gauze taped to the back of his head and sees that his right hand has been bundled into a brace. John grabs his phone off the table beside his bed with his uninjured hand and opens the message:

_Glad you're awake. Will be stopping by soon to check in on you — Mycroft_

His reply is short: _No, you won't. _He is no mood to deal with Mycroft's pompous disdain and certainly not up for the mental challenge of interacting with the man, having only just been able to discern (deduce? no, don't go down that path) where he is by the label attached to his bedside table at eye level: _Property of North Middlesex University Hospital. _He ignores Mycroft's reply and focuses on raising his bed, wincing in pain as the movement jolts sore muscles in his back.

John has just settled as comfortably as he can when the door opens. Lestrade and a nurse enter, the former claiming the room's visitor chair while the latter begins checking John's chart with a practised studiousness.

"Glad to see you awake. You've been out all night - we were starting to worry about you." Lestrade cracks a small smile that seems less cheerful than it should be.

"Is Sally all right?" He sounds like a chain smoker.

"Yeah, she woke up right after the paramedics showed up. Minor concussion and a few cuts and bruises." He scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Look, John, I know you need at least a few days to recover, but you're going to need to come down to the Yard to make a statement." A horrified look crosses his face. "Wait, you do remember what happened, right?"

John nods shallowly, trying not to move. "Yeah, I do. But until then, I don't want to talk about it." He remembers everything, but he'll think about what had happened later. Right now, he needs to focus on ignoring the severe pain plaguing him. The nurse notices his grimace and hands him a paper cup of water that feels heavenly on the bruised tissue of his oesophagus as he drinks it in small sips.

He whispers an inconsequential reply when she introduces herself and leans down to shine her penlight into his eyes. Her name starts with a T. He can't bring himself to care enough to listen to the rest of it, only focusing again on her voice when she offers him a shot of morphine. That is definitely of interest at the moment.

"Hopefully this will start to kick in soon, Dr. Watson. The good news is you only have a minor concussion, which is very lucky for you. We're going to want to keep you another day and do a few scans to make sure nothing's permanently damaged. After that, at least a few days of bed rest and a week of taking it easy - and you'll want to leave off any intense physical activity."

She turns to look at Lestrade, who looks as if he's about to protest but has thought better of it. "We'll give you a prescription for some pain medication, and you'll need to schedule a follow-up, as I'm sure you know."

He nods again, and she leaves them after another stern look at Lestrade. "Press the call button if you need assistance. And not too much talking, either."

An uncomfortable silence stretches between them in her absence. Lestrade is watching him carefully, body unusually tense as if expecting him to do something startling. It isn't until John blinks his eyes open that he realises he must have dozed; the morphine is already working. Greg is at the door, hand poised to grasp the handle, but he turns when John shifts limbs that are feeling more leaden by the minute.

"Tell Mycroft I don't want to see him. I'll see you when..." he pauses for a wheezing breath, "…visit the Yard."

Lestrade nods, still with the odd frown on his face. John would find that interesting if he wasn't moments from returning to sleep. "I'll, ah, do my best to keep him away. Get some sleep, and I'll call you."

John doesn't remember him leaving.

* * *

God damn Mycroft.

He hasn't found any bugs in his flat yet, but the obnoxious arse is probably watching him through his street cameras. He can feel the eyes on him, boring holes into his back whenever he leaves the flat for brief walks to exercise his still-sore body. Once he had thought someone was following him; the flash of a coat disappearing down an alleyway at the corner of his vision had inspired him to turn back, but the narrow space was abandoned when he reached it.

Two similar incidents later, he's ready to text Mycroft and tell him where to stick his cameras, but since Mycroft has limited their communication to a few brief text conversations, he refrains. The nagging itch of being watched keeps him inside more often than he likes, even though he had never really paid the cameras much attention when they had appeared in the flat and the surrounding area shortly after he moved to Baker Street. He watches crap telly and sleeps with the aid of perhaps a few too many pain pills and drinks oceans of tea. It's almost as if he had never gone with Lestrade to Tottenham, except for the text from Greg about coming down to the Yard at the beginning of the next week.

When he sleeps, he dreams of killing Alexander. His medicine-fogged brain forgets that he should be horrified; instead, in his dreams, he walks away from the body smiling. John wakes remembering only pieces of the dreams but feeling more rested than he has in months…yet still feeling just as purposeless. He highly doubts that he'll be included on the next police raid, and the sickening emptiness threatens to return and erase whatever it is he's feeling now - a small flicker of _something_ that refuses to leave, making him restless and anxious.

After too many days cooped up, it's almost a relief to make the trip to the Yard to finally give his statement. Eyes flick to his bruised throat, covered with greenish, healing bruises, and his hand in its brace, but no one asks him what happened; instead they seem determined to ignore him. Donovan approaches him as he navigates the busy space, but thankfully Anderson is nowhere to be seen.

Sally nods when she reaches him and clears her throat. "The Detective Inspector is waiting in his office. But I want to say, uh, thanks. For, you know."

"You're welcome." He moves past her to knock at Lestrade's door. This time, there are no pastries in sight, only Lestrade gathering up some files and standing to meet him at the door. He seems nervous, that strange caution still on his features, and the bags under his eyes are more prominent than usual.

"The, uh, Detective Chief Inspector and the Detective Superintendent are meeting us downstairs. But don't worry, it's just procedure."

John highly doubts that, since for all the other criminal cases he and Sherlock had helped with, not once had they had to explain themselves to Lestrade's higher-ups. Then again, the cases usually concluded with a lot less bloodshed. His building annoyance multiplies when a text comes through from an unfamiliar number:

_A proposition for you. Be seeing you soon._

He pulls up Mycroft's number and sends back another short but anatomically crude reply as he follows Lestrade to the next lowest floor. He hasn't seen much of the rest of the Yard before, but the sea of Plexiglass panes and ergonomic black desk chairs continues here. Lestrade stops him just outside Conference Room B and places a hand on John's shoulder.

"Look, we haven't really talked about what happened, but just, you know, keep it straightforward. He ran, he attacked you, you defended yourself, er, a little too enthusiastically. You'll be fine."

"Thanks." Lestrade pats his shoulder and gives him a small, worried smile before raising his hand to knock.

* * *

Well, things have gotten interesting again for the second most dangerous man in London. John Watson's scuffle with Ned Alexander has given Sebastian Moran just enough time to set up his surveillance. Sherlock Holmes is dead and buried, and Jim along with him, but John Watson is still very much alive. Although not for much longer. Maybe.

It would be nice to train that scope on Watson's fucking face and be allowed to pull the trigger this time. Even after he had watched Holmes splatter on the pavement like a blood balloon, he had been tempted to put a bullet through the good doctor's head. But rules are rules, Jim said, had to play by the rules because we make the rules. _Rules are rules, Sebby, can't go chaaaanging them all over the place or we'd have complete anarchy. Eventually, eventually, Seb._ So he'd left Watson alone, but he's getting bored of playing by the rules. Jim is dead because of Sherlock Holmes, and killing Watson would be like watching Holmes die all over again. Would be a shame to kill another military man, but needs must.

_Sherlock has his pet doctor, and I have you, Seb, _Jim had told him. Holmes had taken Jim from him, so it was only fair to take away Watson too. Rage speeds through his veins when he pictures the bastard crying at Holmes' grave when he had had to be content with stealing Jim's tie and phone from the body on the rooftop. By now the tie is a bit grimy and he still has yet to figure out how to gain access to most of the data on the phone, but Jim had given him a lovely going-away present: control of _the_ network. A network which has shrunk since Jim's death but is still capable of keeping tabs on Johnny.

He misses Jim. He's bored without Jim. When Jim was around, Sebastian could play a part in his games with him and soak up the terror and the blood and be full and happy. Now he's just empty and bored, and if he starts picking off homeless people one by one from the rooftops of abandoned buildings again someone will notice. But now there's something new, something _interesting_. He replays the footage of John (_Johnny john John)_ in the cemetery with a stone in his hand and a crazed look in his eye, and _maybe_ he'll let Watson live just a bit longer if he is going to be this much fun.

With Jim gone, Seb could really use a new friend.

* * *

Two bland-looking men John assumes are the Detective Chief Inspector and the Detective Superintendent are seated on the far side of the table across from two empty, uncomfortable looking plastic chairs. One has a stack of paperwork in front of him that he shuffles into order as John and Lestrade sit down.

"Mister Watson, I'm Detective Superintendent Bagley and this is Detective Chief Inspector Ogilvie. I'm sure you're well aware why you're here. We'd like to get started."

John doesn't bother correcting them about his title. Bagley has lines on his face that indicate an aversion to smiling, and Ogilvie is pencil-thin and dour. John manages to resist a smirk at the thought of what Sherlock would have made of them, already exuding an air of pomposity and disdain. Then again, they had needed Sherlock to keep their solve rate buoyed, whereas to them John is simply a liability without any worthwhile benefits…even though, to be fair, he _did_ stop Alexander. With a very large chunk of rock. This time, he brings a hand to his mouth to cover his small smile, hiding the grin by wiping his mouth. It won't do to get them riled up; they're probably the type who like to abuse their power and throw people in a cell for a few days for the hell of it.

"Mister Watson, can you take us through your actions on this past Monday, beginning with your arrival at Detective Inspector Lestrade's office?"

John really tries to be patient, he does. He begins his story but is almost instantly interrupted by Bagley. "Detective Inspector, were you aware that Mister Watson was in possession of an illegal firearm?"

Lestrade looks completely caught off-guard. "I, er—yes, I knew John had a gun."

Ogilvie shuffles through his notes. "We've spoken with one of your subordinates, a Mr. Anderson, who informed us that he cautioned you Mister Watson's firearm was unregistered. And yet you proceeded to allow him to accompany you to Alexander's location?"

"Well, he was in the military and has helped out on a few cases before and the urgency of the situation—"

John listens to Lestrade flounder for an excuse as the pilot light of rage flickers stronger deep in his gut. Jesus, Lestrade doesn't deserve to be reamed out over this, and of _course_ Anderson would have volunteered any and all information to see John thrown out of the Yard and perhaps into prison, that fuck. He clenches his fist under the table and grits his teeth as they continue to question Lestrade. The flame of anger grows until he can't keep himself from interrupting.

"Excuse me, but I really think this has more to do with me than the Detective Inspector."

Lestrade looks relieved as three sets of eyes turn back to focus on John. "Mister Watson—"

"—it's Doctor Watson, actually."

Bagley actually sniffs at his correction, and now John can feel the crackle and heat of his annoyance.

"Well, then, _Doctor _Watson, why don't you explain to us why you felt the need to repeatedly attack Ned Alexander rather than attempting to subdue him to a state where he could be brought into custody and perhaps provided valuable information on his crime syndicate?"

John forms and speaks some sort of answer, placating bullshit that will keep him out of prison but come nowhere close to the truth. He doesn't owe either of these men the truth: that he couldn't stop at first and then _didn't want to stop, _and now replaying the scene in his head makes him realise that the only time he's felt alive in _two months_ was when he was fighting for his life. No, that's not even it. It wasn't saving himself or stopping a criminal that had brought back to him a spark of life that had yet to be extinguished in the week since its arrival.

It had been watching the life slip from Alexander's body with each blow. Watching insurgents that had gunned down his men fall under _his _gun. Watching the blood pool underneath them (_him_) as he took their lives. Feeling the power or simply just being able to feel something in the midst of a choking vortex of nothing that gagged him more than Alexander's hands.

He wonders if the others can read this epiphany in his face — if they know that the honourable, loyal companion John H. Watson has just discovered that he relishes killing a man for no other reason than because he _could_. John knows there's something wrong with this, but he could really care less right now, in this room with these men.

After he finishes his testimony, Ogilvie and Bagley leave them in the room alone for a moment. Lestrade sighs and rubs at his eyes with his hand. "Christ, this whole thing is a mess. Mycroft said he would see what he could do, but who the hell knows what that means with him?" He falls silent as the door opens and the chief inspector and superintendent take their seats again.

"Doctor Watson, I don't think I need to tell either you or the Detective Inspector that your involvement on any future cases is absolutely forbidden. Scotland Yard cannot afford any more incidents like one."

Bagley clears his throat and glances at Ogilvie before continuing. "We have, however, received word that your firearm has been registered, so you will be allowed to retain it. We have also been informed that it would be, ah, imprudent to seek any retributive action against yourself or the detective inspector, as the operation did result in an outcome preferable to Alexander's escape, considering his threat level."

Lestrade looks relieved, despite being given another sheaf of paperwork to fill out. They make their way back to his office, where he suddenly hugs John. "Thank Christ. No, sod that, thank Mycroft. I thought one of us was going to be chucked in prison. I'm honestly glad to have forms. We should go out for that pint to celebrate."

"I'm really not feeling up to it. Besides, you've got forms." He offers a small, weak smile.

Lestrade grins at him, the first real smile the man's given him in a long time. "Sure, sure, I know you're probably exhausted. Some other time, yeah?"

He sees Sally again on his way out, who looks a bit more subdued now that Anderson is lurking. The pasty-faced fuck starts to approach John, who escapes before Anderson can open his mouth. John's really not sure what he would do if Anderson talked to him right now, but he has a feeling Anderson wouldn't want to find out.

The air feels cool and clean as he leaves the building and makes his way towards the tube station. His hand has started throbbing, so he's too busy adjusting the straps on his brace to see the man who yanks him into an alley and covers his face with a hood before bundling him into a vehicle.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

So you may have noticed the shift to present tense while you were reading. While I was writing this chapter, it seemed to flow much better in present tense than past, and after reviewing the past chapters, I decided to go back and change those to present as well. I think in the long haul it will be a more effective way of writing the action scenes and making John's emotions (or Seb's, or whomever's) a bit more palpable. Let me know what you think!

This chapter was a bitch to write. I got stuck at the Scotland Yard scene but finally managed to slog through. Seb was fun to write, although pretty tricky. There will be some great stuff coming up, so stay tuned (Sherlock _will_ be back eventually, when it's time.) John's about to get an offer he won't want to refuse :}

Thank you so much for all of the story alerts, favorites, and reviews! You guys are the greatest. Thanks again to Brittany (OodIsGood) for the support, beta-ing, and crazy weekends.


	5. Chapter 5

His kidnappers are surprisingly gentle, careful of his hand and other remaining injuries. Still, his body tenses under the hands that grip his arms, because while Mycroft is fond of unexpected visits, his invitations for meetings are just that: suggestions tainted by command. This is something different and wholly more hostile. He can feel the vibrations of the wheels moving over the pavement and hear the breathing of the men sitting next to him (he's pretty sure they're men), but he knows he's missing a thousand different clues that could tell him who's kidnapped him and where they're headed and all the other answers that Sherlock would already have deduced. He'd use his skills to help John, just as he had a dozen times before, only this time John's on his own. No one will be looking for him for a day at least. John should probably be a bit more frightened, but after the Alexander incident and the interrogation at the Yard, he's just spectacularly annoyed.

He can hear the crunch of gravel under the tyres as the vehicle slows and stops. Arms yank him out the door again, and he's being marched forward. They pass through two doors on their walk (he can tell by the pauses, the shift in the air, and the slight squeak of hinges) before they stop him and push him down to sit in a chair. His good arm is cuffed to the chair, and then his hood is removed, revealing a dim, large, and nondescript room. It could be an office building or it could be a warehouse; John has no way of knowing if he's even still in London, having lost track of time in his reverie on the way. Not too smart.

Even in the dim light, his eyes take a few moments to adjust. He's still blinking when the door opens and shuts rapidly before he can glimpse anything beyond it, his captor leaving as a man about Mycroft's height but far more solid enters. He's wearing dark sunglasses and dressed all in black, his hair dishwater brown and thinning. Even without the sunglasses, John would recognise the man's face from Lestrade's files.

Marcus Solomon is one of England's top crime lords. He's been in and out of court a dozen times alongside his brother, Liam. The Solomon Six are infamous for everything from drug and arms trafficking to extortion and bribery. They're usually only in the papers when another body bearing telltale the marks of gang involvement surfaces in some polluted backwater or trash-filled alley, Marcus always in his sunglasses and Liam with a cocky grin for the cameras. Mycroft hadn't been lying about the danger when he warned John; with their Colombian cartel ties, the Six controlled a large portion of the illegal activity in London.

Solomon takes a seat in another chair, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his legs and clasp his hands. When he finally removes his sunglasses, his eyes are beady, cold, and calculating.

"Doctor Watson, would you like to tell me why you decided to kill one of my associates?"

So they're going to get down to business right away then. Solomon's probably busy, life of a syndicate boss and all that. "It had a lot to do with him trying to strangle me."

John's a bit taken aback when, instead of cuffing him across the face or simply shooting him, Solomon just smiles a crooked grin. "Tough as nails. You're probably wondering how I know about Ned, but that's not really important. The important part of this information, at least for you, is what I plan to do about it."

He can feel his body begin to tense up in anticipation of a fight, the thrill and adrenaline returning. Whatever Solomon sees in John's response makes him lean forward in avid interest, eyes shining.

"See, there it is. You're a doctor, you work with the cops, and yet here you are with my man's blood on your hands and that look on your face like you're ready to jump over here and tear my fuckin' heart out."

John freezes in confusion, heart still pounding. "What?"

"You know who I am, Dr. Watson, you know what I do, so don't play dumb. You beat one of my men to death with a_ fuckin' rock._ I watched a video of you killing Ned, and you looked like Christmas came early. Not the way a guy working with the police usually acts chasing down a suspect, I don't think."

John's mind hasn't caught up yet, but his body is already reacting to the implication behind Solomon's words.

"So I'm going to offer you a choice: you come work for me. Taking care of people that I need taken care of, threatened, killed, whatever I need. I'll pay you, of course, since I'm sure the Yard don't. Do it, and I don't gut you and leave you as a message for the Yardies. Or you can go home and live out your last few days before I come for you and do just that. Up to you."

There it is. A choice. He's surprised to be getting one, but not as surprised as he should be. But is it really a choice? He can't just become a goddamn _hitman_, he's a retired soldier and almost-detective and he works (_worked_, he reminds himself) with the bloody _Yard_. How long would it be before he'd be hauled back in to explain once some profiler is onto him? How long before Mycroft catches him on some surveillance feed and turns him in?

And then he realises: he's actually considering it. Not how to get out of doing it but how to _pull it off_. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales, trying to clear his mind and come up with the willpower to refuse, to be that heroic, loyal man everyone believes him to be. Instead, what comes out is a sharp exhale. "How long do I have to decide?"

When Solomon smiles, it's like staring down a shark, all teeth and shining, predatory eyes. "I'll give you two days to make up your mind."

Yet again, he's surprised by Solomon. "Really."

"What, you going to try and turn me in to the Yard, pull off a sting or something? I don't think so. You'd have to explain why you didn't turn me down, and then there's the _tiny _problem of the Yard not being able to tell their arse from their elbow. You don't even know where the fuck you are right now. I'll give you two days, and then I'll find you tomorrow at midnight and get my answer. You know why?"

John just stares at him, thin-lipped.

"Because, Dr. Watson, you're not going to say yes because you need to. You're going to say yes because you _want_ to."

* * *

It's a testament to Solomon's influence in London that Mycroft isn't blowing up John's phone with texts and missed calls as soon as he's dropped at the kerb outside of his flat. He realises belatedly that it hadn't been Mycroft texting him earlier but smiles slightly at the thought of Mycroft's face at his reply.

The hallway is quiet. Mrs. Hudson must be out shopping or next door with Mrs. Turner. He's only been gone for about an hour since leaving the Yard, but long shadows are already starting to creep across the floor of 221B. It's a drowsy afternoon, but he can still feel the crackle of adrenaline in his veins.

He has two days.

He hangs up his coat, toes off his shoes and socks, and pads barefoot to collapse into his armchair. There are bullet holes tracing a smiley face in the wall and a creased leather chair across from him. John hadn't been able to bring himself to shove it into Sherlock's room amid all the boxes, so now it sits empty and finely layered with two months' dust.

Sherlock Holmes. In all the time they'd known each other, John had never thought to ask Sherlock's middle name. Maybe he hadn't had one. Maybe he was just Sherlock "Consulting Detective" Holmes.

If he closes his eyes, John could imagine Sherlock crouching in the chair, legs splayed, forearms resting atop his thighs as he perches like a giant bloody vulture, leaning forward with intensity as he speaks, eyes bright in excitement at the thrill of a case. But now it's disappointment that fills this imaginary Sherlock's eyes, barely perceptible even John. Sherlock can see his struggle and condemns him for it, the way he had never done when he was alive and thought John was being idiotic or slow or blind to the facts right in front of his nose.

He is looking at John the way he had looked at him in the pool, when John had stepped out from the changing booth and faced Sherlock's shock and hurt. Sherlock had watched as though John had betrayed him, and it still made his heart ache, because John _had _betrayed him - had doubted Sherlock for only a moment - and then Sherlock had left him.

His eyes fly open as he shouts at the empty chair, "What do you _want from me_?" Because that's what all this is about. _Sherlock._ It has been and it will be about Sherlock, what Sherlock thinks of him. But the chair remains empty, because Sherlock is still slowly decomposing under his tombstone, and the daylight of one of his two days to decide is already almost gone.

The floorboards creak as John jumps up to pace restlessly, barefoot without the concern of a stray needle of some sort embedding itself in the soft flesh of his foot. He turns at the couch and strides back to the kitchen, back and forth in a tense, rapid pattern. The numbness has receded again, this time overwhelmed by panic and anger and sadness and everything he hasn't been feeling. It's as if the abyss is beckoning, and if he steps over the edge, he'll be swallowed again by grief. He continues to move, hoping to fend it off, but only feeling more anxious.

He stops treading and grabs his coat instead, yanking it back on as he clatters down the stairs, desperate to be anywhere but here, where Sherlock's ghost haunts him with blood-streaked, saddened eyes that still steal his breath away.

As he's opening the door, he almost runs into Mrs. Hudson, who takes one look at his face and exclaims, "John! What happened?"

He can't tell her, doesn't want to, tries to remain calm, but can't stop himself from choking out, "Damn it, Mrs. Hudson, just let me be!" and pushing past her to stride down the pavement.

The streets are slowly emptying as the commuters abandon them for families and warm dinners, but John doesn't stop walking, even when the street lamps come on and the chill descends in earnest. He's shivering, even with his collar turned up, and his hand aches with the dull, throbbing pain of bruised bone, but even then, he still walks. He doesn't know where he's going and, quite frankly, doesn't care. His mind is blank and turbulent and he can feel the minutes counting down and still doesn't know what answer he's going to give.

A beep from his mobile startles him.

_John, you're hiding something from me. I'll stay away if you wish, but come to me first if you're in danger. — Mycroft_

He knows. Mycroft knows already, and there's nothing John can do. Until he rereads the text and realises that Mycroft _doesn't _know. He's guessing at shadows; John must have disappeared from his far-reaching surveillance network for an hour or two earlier, and he's disturbed that there are indeed those who can avoid his gaze when they want to hide. He barks out a humourless laugh; Mycroft must be slipping if _two _criminals can outmanoeuvre him in such a short span of time.

If he can disappear for an hour once, what's to prevent him from doing it again?

If the most powerful man in London can't find him and stop him, who would?

Chimes sound out midnight. He has twenty-four hours left to decide. He looks around for a street sign but soon gives up, wandering further until the street lights are closer together and there is actually traffic and he can flag down a cab to take him home. He'd be surprised by how far he managed to walk, but there are more important things on his mind and he's concentrating on not combusting into a million tiny particles.

No one is waiting for him at the flat. Sherlock's chair is still empty, dust still undisturbed.

He tries to pretend it's just another night at the flat and makes tea, feeling lightheaded, as if something in him is trying to depart from his body. He drinks half a cup before giving up and heading for the shower, where he practically scalds himself and tries not to think about Sherlock and that damning look, but what's to stop him, really? The one person he really cared about sacrificed himself to save him, and he might throw all that away because the only thing that might the gaping void away is sending someone else in his place.

It's near two when he pulls himself out of the steam-filled bathroom to collapse into bed, the frantic wide-eyed feeling still trying to claw its way out of his chest. He's going to sleep as much as he can, and he's going to forget that he has to kill or be killed starting in hours that are far too quickly escaping, and he's not going to dream of anything, not the war and not Harry telling him everything he's done wrong, and he's bloody well _not_ going to think of Sherlock.

Except that he does…and not the Sherlock of the condemning, disappointed, concerned eyes. This is the Sherlock John hasn't thought of in months, the Sherlock he dreamed about while Sherlock was still alive, the one who stood just a bit too close and whose eyes were instead filled with the kind of intense curiosity that sent shivers down John's spine that he had tried so hard to hide.

His back is fighting to arch off the bed, and the sheets are twisting around him, and he's given up trying to not to imagine those lush lips on his neck. He gives in just as he had all those times when Sherlock kept him up playing violin at three in the morning or when he had come in at two after a date and listened for long minutes to make sure Sherlock was asleep. He doesn't want to want this, especially now that even the barest chance is gone, but he's too exhausted from fighting too much, and he's too fucking shattered to care.

His hand plunges under the sheets and he strokes himself as slowly as he can stand, everything that's been tormenting him combining into a toxic cocktail that sends heated lust surging through his body. Imagining Sherlock in the living room earlier opened the floodgates, and now he can picture the tall figure striding towards him, pinning him roughly against the wall, pale eyes aflame as his lips meet John's in a bruising kiss before trailing down to John's neck. John can feel the brush of those lips as Sherlock whispers the filthiest things John has ever heard into John's ear. Because as many times as Sherlock had levelled that wide-eyed, tender look at him, John's not a man for tenderness, at least not anymore.

John's hand moves faster, rougher over himself as his other hand reaches down to cup his balls. His heart is racing as he pictures Sherlock pliant and gasping beneath him, and he comes with a shout, his vision searing white as he spills over his shaking hands.

He's so exhausted he can barely move. He doesn't want to think about what he's just done, or about the decision he still has to make, or any of it. He lets sleep finally take him, the last thought in his mind of Sherlock's grey-blue eyes.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

Oh my goooooood. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, in terms of just finding the time to sit down and actually put words together between all the personal happenings in my life (new job, finally got my license, etc.) It was also a very emotional chapter, character-wise, and I wanted to take my time and do it justice. The next chapter will definitely not take as long! For anyone interested, I based the Solomon Six off of the Clerkenwell crime syndicate, based on information I found on Wikipedia.

Extra-special thanks to Brittany (OodIsGood) for feedback and fangirling and making sure I finished this chapter. Thank you again for reading and for all of your support via PMs, favorites, and reviews!


	6. Chapter 6

His hood is removed to reveal the same dark room he had been brought to two days before. Solomon is already sitting in front of him, waiting for his answer.

He was right. John had had a choice, just as he had so many times before, but he really hadn't needed one. He would have said yes either way, this time.

Solomon's eyes glisten with glee as he slips his sunglasses back on and stands, offering his hand to John. John hesitates for a moment, contemplates breaking the man's hand to wipe the smirk away, and meets Solomon's left hand with his own. It's the wrong hand, since his right is still bundled up and healing, but there really isn't a proper hand, he thinks, for agreeing to kill.

"Welcome to the team, Johnny boy. I'll be calling you by the end of the week with your first assignment, after you get that hand checked on. Jump right in, right?"

He can practically hear the wink behind Solomon's shades, like the man thinks they've suddenly become best friends. John's head aches, and he's trying not to think about what he's just agreed to do.

"Take me home," he manages to say, anger and sheer exhaustion threatening to break his voice.

"Anything you say, Johnny." The last thing he sees is Solomon's wide, toothy grin before the hood is replaced and he is unceremoniously led back to the car. John isn't surprised; if he were Solomon, he wouldn't trust him either.

When he is finally deposited outside of 221, it's as if the past two days never happened…but of course they did. He doesn't want to be here again. What if he sells the flat, moves away, leaves London? The thought sends an icy shock through him as he climbs up the steps. It's past one, but his mind won't give in and let him rest, remembering what he had done in his bed the night before. His feet try to take him up to his bedroom, his body drowsy with stress and diminishing adrenaline, but at the last moment they turn and suddenly he's at another door.

When he flips the light switch, Sherlock's room is suddenly illuminated by soft, golden light from the antique lamp on the bedside table. There seem to be fewer boxes than he remembered, all piled at the foot of the bed. The few boxes, a bed stripped and left empty, and the closet's contents are all that remain. John closes the door softly behind him and pads quietly to the armoire, opening the door to run his hands along the hanging suit jackets and shirts. The purple one, Sherlock's favourite, is missing, rotting below the earth with its owner, but the dove-grey and black ones, among others, are still here. John selects a jacket at random and pulls it on. The waist is too trim and the arms too long, and when he catches his reflection in the vanity mirror on the dresser, he responds with a wry, humourless grin at himself. He looks like a child playing dress-up in some adult's clothes, too short and podgy for an expensive bespoke wardrobe. But if he has the sleeves taken in and the waist let out, leaving the rest of the jacket unfashionably long…

He replaces the jacket but pulls the trousers and shirts out to pile on the bed. No tailor could work enough magic to make those fit. He could donate them to some charity - what charity wouldn't be ecstatic to receive designer clothing - but the thought of anyone else in Sherlock's clothes repulses him. Soon Sherlock's shoes are added to the pile, along with the rest of his clothes, except for a few t-shirts and pyjama bottoms and, of course, the blue dressing gown.

A waft of Sherlock's cologne, released from some long-undisturbed fold of cloth, reaches his nose and his gut clenches. He drops the garment he's holding and heads for the kitchen, where he finds the bottle of whiskey he had been trying to forget. Several sips later, his legs steady, he returns to Sherlock's room with the bottle to sit on the floor. He's within arm's reach of the boxes, labelled in Greg's mostly legible scrawl. The first few he grabs are labelled _Books_ so he sets them aside and reaches for another, not bothering to check its contents before opening the lid.

It's full of hundreds of scraps of paper covered in diagrams, little snatches of writing, even doodles, although those are mostly John's. He had gathered up every single loose piece of paper, even the ones wedged in the pages of Sherlock's books or, strangely enough, jammed between the walls and the baseboards, and dumped them into this box without looking too closely. Now he reads through a few dozen at random, eyes scanning the scribbles.

_Subject appears unaffected by citrus juice — try aggregate fruit (strawberry?)_

_3/2__/201/42/13/__65__/831_

_I'll be back at six. Please remember the milk, Sherlock — John_

_Adipose capsule; renal medulla; interlobular artery_

A shopping list of kidney parts? John swigs another mouthful of whiskey and tosses the notes back into the box. Reading the notes has reminded him that somewhere in the room is a box labelled _Journals_. He shifts aside more cartons until he finds it and, leaning back against the foot of the bed, pulls the lid aside. He had carefully arranged Sherlock's journals by date. Only one overlapped with the time John had known him; the rest recorded thoughts and observations from as far back as before Sherlock had entered university. John remembers the day he had found one sitting out in the living room and joked about Sherlock's "diary," laughing at the man's put-out pout. John had eventually coaxed him back out with some food Mrs. Hudson had dropped off, although he couldn't remember what it had been. Just some sort of dinner thing that had made Sherlock's stomach growl loud enough that John could hear it in the kitchen through Sherlock's closed door.

John allows himself a small smile. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but it's only an alert that the battery's almost dead. He should be sleeping, but he had finally given in and answered Mycroft's text yesterday. The thought of the meeting they have planned makes his stomach churn again, and he downs another swig of whiskey. It's late, and he needs to sleep before facing Mycroft tomorrow - no, later today - but his exhaustion and the effects of the alcohol are still losing out to the turmoil and panic. Instead, he reaches for the oldest journal and crack open the age- and probably chemical- stiffened book; the pages do smell faintly of formaldehyde.

He falls asleep just before sunrise, two journals and half a bottle of whiskey later.

* * *

The honking of a particularly loud lorry horn startles John awake at nine. His phone, still clinging to the last of its battery, tells him that it's 9:00, and he has forty-five minutes before he has to meet Mycroft, after only a few hours of sleep. He pushes the blue robe, his makeshift blanket, off his legs, almost knocking over the whiskey bottle as he stands.

Half an hour later, he's showered, shaved, and managed to look otherwise presentable. The cafe Mycroft suggested after John refused to let him come to Baker Street is a short taxi ride away, in an unsurprisingly posh part of the city, and he manages to arrive with exactly two minutes to spare. Mycroft, of course, has already been seated. He looks up from the document he's scanning when John sits down and smiles blandly.

"Hello, John. I hope this establishment is suitable to your tastes, since the club was too, ah, quiet for them." Mycroft had of course tried to lure John into meeting him at the Diogenes Club, an even less desirable scenario.

A waitress sets a cup of tea, prepared just as he likes it, in front of him. He glances over at Mycroft, who is sipping from his own cup. "Listen, that text the other day…er, sorry about that. It wasn't meant to go to you. Well, it was, but only because I thought _you _had texted _me_."

Mycroft waves a hand in dismissal. "If I let comments like yours bother me, John, I wouldn't have survived very long in my line of work, would I?" He doesn't wait for a reply, only leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his chin as he fixes a stare on John that seems is a shared Holmesian trait. His pale eyes take in John's haggard face as if he can tell everything from the bags under his eyes and the deepening of the creases across his forehead.

"How are you, truly?"

"I'm fine, Mycroft."

Mycroft studies him in silence for a full two minutes as John sips his tea and stares right back. When Mycroft speaks, it's in a gentle, condescending tone that sets John's teeth on edge.

"John, you very recently killed a man in situations even a seasoned soldier would find horrific. Other than that remarkably explicit message, you have ignored my attempts to contact you, and you are very clearly still grieving over my—"

"This isn't about Sherlock, Mycroft."

"No, John, it isn't. It's about _you_. There is something you are not telling me, and I cannot keep my promise to my brother to keep you safe if you will not tell me what is going on."

Sherlock had asked Mycroft to keep an eye on him? When? He raises his hand in its brace and smirks humorlessly at Mycroft. "Doing a bang-up job so far."

"This is not a _joke_." Mycroft has gone completely, deadly still. "You disappeared from my surveillance, John. Twice. I don't think I need to tell you how incredibly unlikely it is that anyone my network is observing with special interest should be able to do so once, let alone a second time. I need to know where you were during the times that you were not observed and with whom."

He opens his mouth but realises the trap seconds before he gives himself away. Mycroft's strategy suffers from one flaw: John lived with Sherlock and has seen this particular trick used effectively many times before. Mycroft doesn't know that John was with anyone, but if John replies, "How did you know I was with someone," he confirms the man's suspicions. Instead the corners of his mouth curl up in another smirk.

"I'm not telling you a bloody thing, Mycroft."

"John, you murdered a member of the Solomon Six, I will _not_ let you—"

"What, Mycroft? You won't _let _me? Excuse me, I know you are used to the entire world consisting of your subordinates, but I am _not _one of them." Heated anger curled deep inside him at Mycroft's arrogance. His involvement in Sherlock's life had not been a bad thing; Mycroft had gotten them both out of countless scrapes, including Alexander's less than a week ago. But John was not Sherlock, and he does not need Mycroft trailing him like a watchdog when he is about to start killing people Mycroft is probably trying to protect.

"Maybe," John hisses. "Maybe you aren't as bloody powerful as you _think _you are. Maybe you need to leave me alone, because I am _done_ being trailed around like a child. I can take care of myself, I am a grown man and a soldier and I do not need you."

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but John cuts him off.

"_No. _You couldn't save Sherlock, what makes you think you can do any better with me? Is it suddenly convenient, to be able to keep watch on me, when you couldn't keep your own brother safe? Should I wait for you to sell me out the moment I trust you? I don't think I want to wait around that long."

Mycroft looks shocked and maybe a little frightened at his outburst. As blunt and angry as he had been during their last face-to-face conversation, this was something far more vicious. "John, what happened to you after you left the hospital? Something is clearly wrong."

John pushes his chair back and stands. There are eyes on his from the cafe's other patrons, but he could scarcely give a flying fuck what anyone thinks. "Yes, Mycroft, something is wrong. Your brother is dead."

Mycroft stands, a glint of anger in his eye now as well. "I am trying to _help you_, John."

"Stay away from me, Mycroft, and quit spying on me. Or else."

He purposefully leaves the threat vague as he leaves the cafe, shoving his hands in his pockets as he shakes his head with fury at Mycroft and his decision to work for Solomon and the entire bloody world. It's not like he can do anything to Mycroft—he knows the man has to have bodyguards—but it's not like he really wants to hurt Sherlock's brother. The thought sits surprisingly uneasy, even while his rage simmers at Mycroft's patronising interference.

When he returns to Baker Street, John spends hours sorting through the rest of Sherlock's belongings. He doesn't read any more of the journals, simply puts them in the pile with the dressing gown. Most of the contents of the boxes goes into the pile on the bed instead. There isn't much left to go through when his phone beeps.

_Day after tomorrow. Notting Hill. Sending a car._

* * *

At 10:30, the sleek black car stops in front of Baker Street. When John gets in, he's surprised to see Solomon himself sitting at the seat's far end. Even in the dim light, he's wearing his sunglasses, but he tilts them down to eye John.

"I know you think criminal types are all delinquent, Johnny, but we do try to dress a bit nicer than that, yeah?"

John looks down at his outfit. He's wearing what he usually does: his shooting jacket over a cardigan and button down, with a pair of jeans.

"Are you honestly telling me to go and change?"

Solomon just grins at him and makes a shooing motion towards the door.

When John comes back, he's still wearing the shooting jacket, but he'd changed into a black turtleneck under a thick shawl cardigan with dark grey wool trousers. His black leather gloves are in his pocket, and he hadn't forgotten his Sig upstairs when he changed, although he prays Solomon won't be making him use his own gun. Anyone could trace it back to him in a heartbeat. Anyone being Mycroft or Greg in particular.

"Much better, Johnny boy. Now you look like a professional."

Their drive is surprisingly short, barely fifteen minutes from the flat. They're somewhere in Notting Hill when the driver parks on a quiet street of expensive-looking buildings. The few pedestrians they see are dressed well, and John sees why Solomon made him change. In these outfits, they'll draw no one's attention, blending in with the businessmen and politicians - who won't be looking for a crime lord walking next to them on the street. It's effective camouflage.

John follows Solomon to a door whose lock he picks after only the briefest of glances down the street.

The flat is empty in the way that only incredibly expensive flats can be in London, all crisp white walls and chrome and glass and minimalist art. Given the neighbourhood and how many thousands of pounds the flat's owner is in debt to Solomon, John isn't really surprised.

They find Alistair Spenser in his home office, a room larger than most of John's flat. He's frantically pleading with someone on the phone when they approach the door. While they wait for Spenser to finish his call, Solomon places a gun, equipped with a silencer, into John's gloved hand. John could shoot him with this gun; for a brief moment, he's tempted - and Solomon sees it in his eyes. But then he remembers far too much, and the temptation passes. He's here to kill the poor bastard in the other room over something as petty as money. He has a job to do.

With a nod at John, Solomon opens the door, his own gun drawn and aimed at Spenser, who shrieks and tries to run for the window. John lunges forward and grabs him by the shoulder, leading him back to his desk chair.

Solomon taunts the man, who clearly knows how this visit will end. John doesn't pay much attention to Solomon's words. He's focused on the snivelling businessman pleading for his life. It's embarrassing and, frankly, pathetic watching a grown man beg like this. John had faced far worse, dust and blood and tanks and screams, but not once had he acted like this. He had faced death and survived to grieve for fallen comrades - a deep, soul-scarring grief that still woke him sweating and blurry-eyed in the night, not this showy facade meant only for his killer, remorse that would fade as soon as the danger retreated.

"I know I owe you, Solomon. Take anything, take my car, the flat, it's yours!"

John watches as Solomon leans down closer to Spenser. "Oh, Alistair, see, it isn't about the _money_ anymore. You owe me a debt and chose not to repay it. You _knew_ what would happen."

"But I have- but-"

"Shush, Alistair. Time for deals is over. Now Johnny here is going to shoot you, and we'll call it even, yeah?"

Solomon straightens and steps back, nodding to John in invitation.

He had said yes and followed, but until he pulls the trigger, the coin hovers in the air, neither heads nor tails. As he raises the gun, John's eyes lock with Spenser's. They're both frozen, staring. Neither likes what he sees.

Spenser suddenly bolts for the window again, and he fires. The shot is clean, slicing through the back of the man's head, the bullet taking bits of bone and brain with it as it rips out to embed in the opposite wall.

Solomon watches the body crumple to the floor, then pats John on the shoulder. They stare at the body for a moment before Solomon heads to the door. Maybe killing Spenser should bother John more, but of all the questions John should be asking himself, the only one he voices is the one most obvious: "Are we just leaving him, then?"

Solomon spares the body a backward glance. "This one, yeah, but not all of 'em. Got a cleanup team already on the way."

No one seems to have heard the shot. No sirens pierce the air, no police are assembled in the street. It's just as calm and quiet as when they arrived.

When the car stops outside Baker Street, Solomon grabs his arm as he reaches for the door handle. It takes everything in John to suppress his instinct to attack in response. Now his body finally responds to a threat? It's a laughable thought, only it really isn't.

"Next time, I'll tag along, but it'll be your show. You're not new to killing, so I don't think I need to treat you like you are. There are men who have done worse to me than owe me money that need taking care of. Be in touch."

"Oh, and don't forget to check your bank account," Solomon says with a wink before John steps out onto Baker Street.

* * *

In a hotel in Nagano, Japan, Sherlock Holmes wakes up.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

Yet again, real life decided to commandeer most of my free time, making it a challenge to get this chapter written. But hey, Sherlock's back!

I found flats to use for my mental picture of Alistair Spenser's place on Foxtons; the one I looked at costs upwards of $4 million. Also did a bit of research using, what else, Wikipedia. And sorry I don't know much about guns.

Thanks for all the feedback, you lovely people :) I'll try to update again soon, although it might be another few weeks at the outside. But I'll try my best!


End file.
